


The Star and the Spotlight

by Rowan_Sprawls



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Transcript Format, embarassing!martin, so dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24960550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowan_Sprawls/pseuds/Rowan_Sprawls
Summary: Case #0070116 Statement of Darron Chang regarding a play he saw. Original statement given January 16th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	The Star and the Spotlight

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Darron Chang regarding a play he saw. Original statement given January 16th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I have been a theatre critic for 18 years. My only regret in all that time is that, until now, I was watching mere plays. When I sat down in that audience for The Star and the Spotlight, I was expecting a mere play. Opening night for the first show of an unknown playwright, performed by a company of local volunteers? I thought that I could only be pleasantly surprised at best. But no. I was overwhelmed.

The air was electric with anticipation that night. No ads for this show had ever run, no playbills were ever distributed. The only attention it got was by word of mouth, and the word of mouth said that an unknown benefactor had provided funding, and that details about the show beyond that were a well-kept secret. Theatre folk are superstitious and excitable. How could we resist an enigma like this? It was nearly a full house.

The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The curtain drew back. As its heavy red velvet folded away, it revealed an empty stage.

No actors. No props. No set paces. Just a bare platform illuminated by searing bright stage lights.

There was an outbreak of murmuring within the crowd. I felt a momentary twinge of disappointment. No one reveals an empty stage by accident, of course. This was a choice. Not only that, it was one I would ever recommend making under normal circumstances. An appropriate opening for a show of such secrecy, perhaps, but I had seen enough low-budget imaginationland art house pieces to know what this kind of thing tends to lead into. I prepared myself for a mess of trite pseudo-avant-gardism.

But then the play began, in its way. Those blazing white lights retreated from the stage and turned instead to us. To the audience. There was a lot of bemused noises an wincing among us at first. But then, like a wave, a feeling came over us all. Hands fell from faces. Eyes opened wide. Everyone assumed position quietly and intensely.

Any theatre critic worth considering has some amount of acting experience under their belt. I knew the feeling the those lights brought me. It was familiar. Nostalgic, even. That particular angle that stole two thirds of your forward vision, that slow-cooker heat. They had captured it perfectly. I was performing now. I remained in my seat, but there was no mistaking the feeling. Once those lights hit me I was on stage. We were all on stage.

I hardly had a moment to appreciate the incredible novelty of the experience before a new element was added to it. Under the glare of the lights I started to see silhouettes shift into place. Figures were moving onto the stage. The all sat down, though I'm not sure on what, and they looked up at us. As I said, They were on the stage, but by some optical illusion made the rows of faces curve at this seemingly impossible angle that put their heads below ours.

As my eyes struggled against the light and the impossibility of these new figures, I was beginning to realize the brilliance of this performance. Just as the audience was on now stage, so too were the actors now in their seats. Our roles were reversed, and with each second that passed, I became increasingly aware of the implications of this new position.

My breath fell shallow. My heart raced. They were giving a stellar, flawless performance as our audience. I could feel their eyes upon me. I could not see them. They were all far too dark and indistinct for clear features to be found. But I was certain they were all looking at me.

Music began to play. It was subtle. Low ambient tones to set a mood of anticipation. But there was an undercurrent to them; a muted violin that seemed to speak as much as play. It whispered instructions in my ear. It told me this theatre was to be like a mirror reflecting itself, and that it was my job to make that happen. It demanded stillness- a dignified stillness to match the actors I was observing. I was to play the perfect audience to the perfect audience.

It all sounds so strange, writing it out, but I know what I was feeling in the moment. I know what I heard. I know how important it all was. I know it was natural. A grand position in a grand place with a perfect sound. Infinity, and an opportunity to prove myself to it.

I sat still. I put my eyes forward. The music swelled. This was my moment. The actors that observed me seemed endless. A grey night sky of still faces watching me through the furious luminescence of a dozen fiery moons. They were what they portrayed, and I had my part to play.

Now the lights shined through me. Not on me, but through me. I lost myself in them, and I found something more myself in them than I ever was. I became the absolute revelation of my emotional truth. Identity slipped between the spaces in my soul like a great silk cloth. My very spirit was bare before the lights, and before my shaded watchers.

And so I held my spirit still. Painfully still, as was my role. I could see a script in my head telling me what angles to bend my head and knees at, and how to space my fingers on the front of the armrest. I fought with the constant adrenaline of performance. My heart caught in my throat as I lashed every extremity of my soul to the seat. The sweat dripping from my head threatened to disrupt my shallow breath. But I could not let it. I could not cough. There was no room for error. An audience was watching. I could hear a director shouting my motivation in my ear through the rising Shepard's tone of the strings.

'They see all of you,' he said 'they see all of you!'

Any error - any twitch or momentary distraction - would reverberate through them and out into the world. They see all of me. Everyone can see all of me. I knew that I could not leave this theatre again if my performance faultered. There would be nothing left for me beyond the door.

Two rows up, a scream sounded out and then turned to anguished weeping. I saw a woman drag her nails across her arms. She stained her hair with her blood as she pulled at it it. She had made a mistake. Everyone saw her do it. Now everyone here knew that she had failed. Everyone everywhere would soon know. The world would know she is worthless. Why go on? This pitiful, cringing spectacle would certainly be destroyed now that her incompetence lay exposed. And did she not deserve that destruction? Had she not inflicted her disgraceful display upon countless peers? She knew what had to be done. As she gave up on using her fists, and began to loudly crack her skull against against the seat in front of her, I knew that she deserved it. We all knew that embarrassment of a person deserved it. That final blood-wet smack brought the act to order again.

Until another cry sounded out. And then another. Distracted. Amateurish. Unworthy. They crushed their own windpipes, they cut at themselves with whatever dull impliments they could find, and they wept so shamelessly through the whole ordeal. The eyes of the audience would never leave them.

They had to leave the eyes. There was only one escape. One suitable punishment to inflict on themselves.

As my fellow audience members fell, one after another, I felt a twinge of something. I had no sympathy for them, but I got the briefest sensation that I should. I couldn't entertain that feeling, though. I had to stay in character. I had to match the emotional state of the attentive observer I portrayed. There was no room for anything else.

The desperate sobbing and visceral percussion of the inept mass around me grew to a cacophony. It drowned out my musical accompaniment. I got the sense the act was falling apart. Soon this mess would drag me down with it.

I held and I held and I held. Soon I too would slip and have only one option. My clothes felt uncomfortable on my back. The hairs on my arm were bent strangely. Itchy sensations appeared and faded. Just as it was all about to destroy my focus, there was a moment of eary silence. Then the lights went out.

They reappeared again almost instantly, back facing the stage that was now empty once again.

They were still watching me, somewhere, but I knew my performance was over. I alone had succeeded, and now I was free to improvise. My sense of satisfaction even now is hard to describe.

I stood up to leave the theatre. My new shoes got wet and dirty with the pooling blood of the rest of audience. A small nitpick, but it did sully my good mood a little.

Now I need to finish this quickly. They are still watching. I think they are proud of me, but they won't be for long. They're going to expect something of me again soon. They're still watching. They still see me.

Statement ends.

ARCHIVIST

This isn't technically a statement, but it seems to have worked. Daron Chang was a theatre critic known for his high-minded, frankly pretentious reviews. This appears to be one of them, though I sense the Eye has had some influence on how it was composed. Then again, maybe he just wrote like this all the time. I never had enough patience to read to the end of one of his write-ups before now. Regardless, there was a 'four out of four stars' rating scribbled at the bottom, making this one of only three performances Chang ever gave a perfect score.

Daron Chang is also known for being one of the most inexplicable and prolific mass-murderers in the UK's history. I guess this sheds some light on his case. Er, no pun intended. Attached to this a post-statement, presumably written by Gertrude. It says this review was found alongside Chang's hanging corpse, and a note which reads "They see me. They see all of me. They see me. They see all of me" etc. repeated several hundred times in very small, precise lettering. I miss they days when I would have found that even a little unsettling...

MARTIN

Jon? You there?

ARCHIVIST

Yes, Martin. Just finished the statement. Actually, it was a review by Daron Chang, if you can believe it. Turns out he never killed anyone. The show he was at was put on by the Eye.

MARTIN

Really? The Eye did "a Chorus Line"?

ARCHIVIST

No, it seems the papers were lying about that part.

MARTIN

So that means this was another one of your 'cannibal' statements?

ARCHIVIST

I suppose so. There's quite a lot of them in this batch. You know, its strange. The Entities most likely don't have anything we could recognize as consciousness, but I could swear from the statements that there's a kind of personality to each of them.

MARTIN

How do you mean?

ARCHIVIST

Take this for example. Here I am a... a part of the Eye, reading a four-star review that the Eye had someone else write about itself. Doesn't that seem a little... self-indulgent to you? Narcissistic, even?

MARTIN

I guess. Now that you mention it, the Lonely did come off as a little- how should I put this- overconfident?

ARCHIVIST

Honestly, the Web comes of as a shut-in. Its statements are full of movies and plays and radio dramas. Meanwhile, it can't even be bothered with a ritual.

MARTIN

Oh, and the Spiral is a total cynic. Wants nothing, takes what it can get, messes around because it doesn't care.

ARCHIVIST

I suspect the Flesh is actually trying to be kind, in its own way. 'Improving' and feeding people and all that.

MARTIN

The Buried seems very straight laced. You know, all by-the-book with who it takes and how.

ARCHIVIST

The End is competitive, obviously.

MARTIN

The Corruption is petty.

ARCHIVIST

I'm guessing Prentiss gave you that impression? The Slaughter is lazy, lets everyone else do the work for it.

MARTIN

The Hunt is overcompensating. Definitely a 'peaked in high school' personality.

ARCHIVIST

The Stranger is an innovator.

MARTIN

Hmm... The Dark?

ARCHIVIST

Not sure, I can't really get a read on that one? 'Childish,' maybe? I'm not sure about the Vast either.

MARTIN

Sounds like you've got some kinks to work out of your theory.

ARCHIVIST

Well, no model for the Entities is perfect.

MARTIN

True. Anyway the Desolation is definitely a pervert.

ARCHIVIST

Martin!

MARTIN

What?! You know the whole story with Agnes. None of the other Fears would have played along with that. And Agnes herself ruined it for a snog? Its horny, plain and simple.

ARCHIVIST

I suspect, Martin, that you may be projecting.

MARTIN

Onto the Desolation? No way. I'm not that big a fan of it, to be honest. It's only got the second hottest avatar.

ARCHIVIST

...was that a-? No. No. We're done with that conversation. End recording.

[CLICK]


End file.
